The Twelve Clues of Christmas (11 page)

“You’ve asked everybody in the area to report break-ins or stolen food immediately, have you?” I said. “They have to eat and shelter somewhere.”

“Exactly. With the kind of weather we’ve just had, someone must be hiding them, but we’ve pretty much searched door to door. Most of the local people have lived here all their lives. They’re not the kind of people to be harboring criminals.”

“I’m not sure it is your convicts we’re looking at,” Granddad said slowly. “In my time on the force I came up against a lot of criminals. Most of them were not too bright and if they were going to kill someone they did it with the first thing that came to hand—coshing someone over the head with a brick, stabbing them, or shooting, if they had a gun. And they usually chose the same way too. They’d leave behind a blueprint we could identify. If these are murders, they are clever methods of killing—someone with a good brain is killing in very different ways—heaven knows for what reason. Either that or more than one person is involved. So we have to ask ourselves why. Why would a man bother to electrocute someone at a switchboard when he could presumably follow her home in the dark and cosh or stab her? Until we can get inside his head, we’re not going to be able to stop him.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the inspector said. “But as it happens these convicts were not your usual thugs. One was a bank teller, reckoned to be the brains behind a big train robbery. Another was an escape artist in the theater. You know, Britain’s answer to Houdini. We reckon he was the one who got them out of their shackles. He went bad and turned to safecracking. And the third used to do a comic music-hall act with his wife. The old colonel and the innocent young girl.”

“Sounds harmless enough,” Granddad said.

“I don’t know about that,” the inspector said. “When there was no more money to be made from music halls they started robbing their landladies, or conning them out of their life savings. Some of the old biddies met an untimely end, but we could never prove that this bloke was actually guilty of murder.”

“What happened to the wife? Did she go to jail too?” Granddad asked.

“She committed suicide. Drowned herself off Beachy Head in Sussex.”

“So not from around here, then?”

“None of them were. Driving me mad, that’s what it’s doing.”

He took a long swig of tea, then set down the teacup.

“I don’t think you should be focusing on those convicts,” Granddad said. “An escaped convict is not going to go to the trouble of setting up an elaborate death to look like an accident, is he? If you’re on the run and hiding, the more time you spend out in the open, the greater the likelihood of being caught.”

“Well, at least there hasn’t been a death so far today, touch wood,” the inspector said. “Maybe he’s got the four people he wants.”

“And why did he want them?” Granddad asked. “It seems to me that they couldn’t be more different, and they wouldn’t be a threat to anybody.”

The inspector sighed. “I know. Hopeless, isn’t it? But my chief is going to come back from France and bawl me out if I haven’t solved it.” He got to his feet. “Thanks for the chat, Albert. Maybe things have quieted down for Christmas. Maybe even a hardened criminal can’t bring himself to kill anyone at such a sacred time. Maybe I can even have Christmas dinner with my wife and the nippers for once.”

As he opened the front door a bobby in blue uniform was coming up the path toward us.

“Oh, there you are, sir,” he said. “I was sent from the station to get you. There’s been a robbery in the high street. Mr. Klein the jeweler. They broke in overnight and they’ve taken his most valuable pieces. He’s in a terrible state, sir. Ranting and raving and blaming the police. You’d better come quickly.”

Chapter 17

Inspector Newcombe started down the path toward his motor. “I hope nobody’s touched anything and messed up the fingerprints,” he said. “A lot of damage, was there? Did they smash the window?”

“Oh, no, sir. There were no obvious signs of a break-in and the pieces they took were in the safe at the back. Sarge reckons it was professionals, all right. Picked the lock on the front door. Knew exactly what they were doing and what they were looking for. Only took some rings with bloody great diamonds in them. And Sarge don’t reckon we’ll find any fingerprints neither.”

“Aha,” Newcombe said. “See, what did I tell you? One of those convicts was a professional escape artist, wasn’t he? Expert at picking locks. I knew they were still hanging around here.”

“Oh, but that’s the other thing I’ve got to tell you, sir,” the constable said, his cheeks pink with excitement. “A message just came in that they’ve caught one of the convicts up in Birmingham. Jim Howard, sir. Wasn’t he the one who was the escape artist?”

“Damn,” Inspector Newcombe muttered. “That shoots down my theory, then. I don’t think a bank clerk or a music hall entertainer would know how to crack a safe. I wonder if the other two were with him or if he knows where they are. I don’t suppose he’ll squeal on his mates, anyway.” He clapped a hand on the constable’s shoulder. “Come on, then, lad. Let’s get back into town. Sorry for rushing off like this, Albert. I’ll let you know what we find.”

And he strode down the path to his waiting car.

“At least it’s not a murder,” I said shakily, thinking of the polite and charming Mr. Klein, who had told me about the fine pieces he’d just acquired from Paris. Maybe he had also mentioned these fine pieces to the wrong person. But at least he was still alive and unharmed.

“And this one shouldn’t be too hard to figure out,” Granddad said, staring thoughtfully at the departing car. “There are only a limited number of criminals in an area like this who possess the skills to crack a safe and have the knowledge to take only the best pieces. Your petty thief who needs extra money for Christmas would have smashed the window and grabbed what he could.”

“So you don’t think this crime was related to the strange deaths, do you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Don’t see how. If the others are murders, then they are the work of a twisted sort of mind. And this is the work of an expert burglar. Probably a known criminal.”

We returned to the cozy sitting room. My mother had appeared, wearing a blue satin robe trimmed with feathers. “Has that horrid little man gone?” she asked. “We’re supposed to be having a quiet and peaceful Christmas and instead we have nasty policemen tramping in and out of the house all the time. You shouldn’t have encouraged him, Daddy.”

“The poor bloke is at his wit’s end, ducks. He wanted my advice.”

“I take it you haven’t told him you were just a humble copper and not the leading light of Scotland Yard?” She curled herself into an armchair. “Oh, hello, Georgie, darling. Come and give your aged mother a kiss.”

I did so, then I handed her the package. “A small Christmas token from me. Not to be opened until tomorrow.”

“Georgie, you shouldn’t. How sweet of you. And now I feel terrible because I wasn’t expecting to see you until the new year, when I was planning to take you on a shopping spree.” She uncurled herself. “But you have to have something. Come upstairs and see what you’d like. I know I’m teeny tiny compared to you, but I have some pretty scarves and hats and things.”

“It’s all right, Mummy, you really don’t need to. . . .”

“Nonsense. I insist. You have to have something on the right day. Besides, I always travel with far too many clothes.”

And she dragged me up the narrow staircase into a frightfully untidy bedroom. It was clear she rarely traveled without her maid and Mrs. Huggins wasn’t up to the task of keeping a lady’s wardrobe in order.

“Help yourself, darling. Anything you’d like.”

My gaze swept around the room, alighting on a lovely cashmere cardigan in a soft rose. Modesty almost prevented me from asking for it, but I reasoned that she had the money to buy a replacement whenever she wanted while I wasn’t likely to be offered cashmere again in a hurry.

“Could I try this on?” I asked. “It looks as if it might be big enough for me.”

“That old thing?” she said. “Take it, darling. I only brought it in case it was freezing here, but as you can see, it’s lovely and warm.”

I tried it on and it fitted rather well.

“You need a skirt to go with it,” she said. “That tweed you’re wearing is hopelessly shapeless. Let’s see.” She rummaged in a wardrobe and held up a slim gray crepe de chine. “This is long on me and you do have a nice little waist.”

After a half hour I came away with the cardigan and skirt, a divine peach silk scarf and a clever little black hat with a jaunty peacock feather on one side. As we left the bedroom the door beside it opened and Noel Coward peeked out.

“I’ve been finding Christmas presents for Georgie,” my mother said. “Such fun.”

“Oh, God. Is one supposed to give presents?” Noel said. “It never crossed my mind.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring a present for you, Mr. Coward. I didn’t see anything you might want.”

“Dear child, you couldn’t afford anything I might want,” he said. “In fact, my needs are few these days. But I tell you what—I’ll write a song for you. How would that be?”

“As long as you give her the royalties, Noel,” my mother said astutely.

“Naturally,” he said smoothly. “At least half of them. Ah, well, back to work. I’ve nearly finished that scene, Claire. Can we go through it in a few minutes?”

“I have to get back to the hall.” I gave my mother a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much for the presents. They are lovely. I’ll look quite smart for Christmas. See you tomorrow for Christmas dinner, then.”

“I’m not sure if we’re coming,” she said. “Noel doesn’t think they’ll be our kind of people.”

Back downstairs I gave Granddad his little box and Mrs. Huggins her box of toffees. They were both quite moved.

“Fancy, me getting a present from royalty,” Mrs. Huggins said. “Just wait till I tell them back home at the Queen’s Head.”

“You’re a good girl, my love,” Granddad said, putting an arm around me. “I wish I’d got a present for you, but I had no idea I’d be seeing you. I hope good things come your way soon. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

“Actually, having you close by for Christmas is the best present I could have,” I said, giving him a kiss.

I felt a rosy glow as I came out of the cottage. I saw Miss Prendergast hurrying across the street, even though there was no traffic in sight. She was holding her shapeless hat firmly to her head, although the wind was hardly blowing, and she didn’t notice me until she almost barreled into me.

“Oh, goodness me,” she said. “So sorry. Didn’t see you. I’ve just come from the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Tried to cheer them up but they are completely devastated, poor dears. They relied on Miss Effie for everything. She used to boss them around dreadfully but they are lost without her. One feels so sorry for them.” And her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to sentiment. “I really wish that . . .” she began, then shook her head firmly. “Can’t undo the past, no matter how sad, can one?”

And she went on her way, up the front path to her cottage door. I stared after her. What did she wish? I wondered. That Miss Effie hadn’t died, or that one of the other sisters had died in her stead? I continued on my way back to the hall.

* * *

T
HE REST OF
the day went smoothly enough. The younger set were in good spirits after the pantomime rehearsal and amused themselves playing board games. The Sechrests and Rathbones played bridge, chatting as they did so about this area and their memories of past hunts and regattas and families they both knew. The Rathbones once owned a house nearby for their home leaves but had been forced to give it up a few years ago, when so much money was lost in the great crash of ’29.

“The memsahib still misses her garden, of course,” Colonel Rathbone said. “It’s too damned hot to work in the garden in Calcutta.”

“The gardeners do try hard, bless them,” Mrs. Rathbone said, “but it’s always a losing battle against the heat and then the monsoon comes and flattens everything.”

“Pity it’s not summer or Sandra would love to show you around our garden,” Captain Sechrest said. “Absolutely devoted to her garden, aren’t you, old girl?”

“One has to keep oneself busy while you are away for months,” Mrs. Sechrest said and I noticed that she shot a look at Johnnie Protheroe, who was playing some kind of card game with Bunty that seemed to involve touching her knee quite often.

“So how often do you get home?” Sandy Sechrest asked the Rathbones.

“Every five years.”

“How much longer do you think you’ll stick it out?” she asked.

Colonel Rathbone frowned. “Can’t really say. Of course I’d like to retire to a little place in a village like this. But who knows if we’ll have another blasted war or a native uprising. And who knows what one will be able to afford on an army pension.”

He glanced at his wife, then she looked away. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mrs. Rathbone said. “You give your life to the army and they reward you with a pension that a sparrow couldn’t live on. It’s simply not fair. I should have been like some of the other wives and had an affair with a maharaja and been rewarded for my services with jewels. I know a couple of wives who set themselves up very nicely that way.”

“I wouldn’t have minded an affair with a maharaja,” Sandra Sechrest said dreamily. “They have such lovely dark eyes, don’t they?”

I let the conversation wash over me as I pretended to study a magazine, but I found I could not shake off the tension. The day wasn’t over yet. There was still time for another death.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley appeared, clapping her hands. “Time for tea, everyone. We’re serving it a little early so that we have enough light to go out and find the Yule log. And I wanted to check who would like to go to midnight mass at our little church, and who would rather do matins tomorrow morning. Oh, and Darcy dear—do you need me to find out the times of masses at the Catholic church in Newton Abbott?”

And there it was—the reminder of the fact I had conveniently chosen to block from my mind. Darcy was a Catholic. I would not be allowed to marry him.